Posted in Fifty words, Tapitallee tales
20 September 2020
Looking for the river we drive to Bangalee Reserve, then follow a sign beckoning, ‘Start of walk’. Past an ancient forked bunya pine, with razor-tipped leaves. Slabs of cliff hold rock orchids in flamboyant bloom. Palm trees and stinging trees in sheltered pockets. Views of the river ebb and flow.
Posted in Fifty words, Tapitallee tales
19 September 2020
Fairy lights and swathes of material have transformed the old green shed, now fit for a celebration. Plates of food make way for guitars and singing. Jenny will only dance to Dancing Queen so here it is. John jumps up for Jumping Jack Flash. Not bad for an old guy.
Posted in Fifty words, Tapitallee tales
11 September 2020
I should sit on a rock in the bush more often. Below me, a tiny purple orchid. Around me, a grass with a spray of yellow flowers like a constellation. A swelling banksia flower, yellow as butter inside, hooks of fiery red. Fresh leaves at the base of a eucalypt.
Posted in Fifty words, Tapitallee tales
22 August 2020
I caught the bush in suffragette colours yesterday. Newly green trees, hardenbergia draping pointillist purple blooms over fences, shy unnameable bushes dotted in white and, in a low haze, the violet flowers of Patersonia, native iris, three triangular petals windmilling from the centre. Overnight they shrivelled, purple blobs on stems.
Posted in Fifty words, Tapitallee tales
21 August 2020
A sudden burst of rain hit while I was eating my soup, hard drops that sounded cold just from the way they hit the roof. Once it stopped I went out to get more wood for the fire. The deck was wet. The cheerful sound of frogs filled the night.
Posted in Climate change challenge, Tapitallee tales
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Yesterday was hot. Oven hot. Even as the sun went down it was hot. Last night was hot. I woke from my final bit of restless sleep and, thirsty, reached for my cup of water. The water had become tepid overnight.
Today will also be hot. I sit in the shade with my breakfast and enjoy the light breeze – cool, disarming – while I can, before I’m forced into the house, blinds drawn, seeking out any habitable corner.
The bush is quiet. A small flock of birds flies overhead, quietly. Are they in mourning in this heat-scorched landscape? Lucky not to have burnt, large patches of trees are nevertheless covered in dead, brown leaves. I can almost see how the waves, the billows of heat came off the fire, landing in this patch, and this one.
A kookaburra calls. A deep throaty call. There is no reply. None of the hilarious groups of chuckling I was hearing a few months ago.
One of the good news bushfire stories I’ve read recently is about a group of lyrebirds sheltering in a dam while a fire raged around them. I’ve seen a photo, the lyrebirds in startled poses dotted awkwardly around the dam’s edge. The wonder is that they got there – fiercely territorial, they would have had to walk through each other’s territory to reach it – and the other wonder is that they stayed there, jostling, overcoming their innate competitiveness. Maybe ‘jostling’ is the wrong word. Maybe they were more like magnets with their same sides facing, only reaching a certain point of proximity before being repelled, maintaining a bare minimum gap. I look out at this silent bush around me and wonder if any unseen scenes of miraculous behaviour occurred around our muddy little dam. Last night, standing on the deck in the slightly cooler air, a sickly half-moon of cream-yellow above the trees, I heard a wallaby or kangaroo crunching through the leaves. I saw the quiet flight of an owl, felt a tiny bat shape its dive around my head. Did they all survive near the dam, each hunkered down in its own sweet way?
But I’m wary of these good news bushfire stories, these images of impossibly coloured leaves sprouting from thickly blackened trunks. Just as I’m wary of conversations that start with ‘We’ve always had fires’ or ‘This is how I remember summers in childhood.’ I’m wary of them being the beginning of a smoothing over, a covering up, a pretence of normality. A shrugging of the shoulders that accompanies a statement like, ‘Ah, nature! She’s a bastard.’ I want the agitation of emergency to endure. My little neck of the woods is safe for now but others aren’t. When Greta Thunberg says ‘Our house is burning’ she’s not talking about her family’s house, or her country’s house, she’s talking about the planet’s house. It seems to be human nature – and not an aspect of it that we can be proud of – to think small when we think of ‘our’, and to use ‘our’ as an exclusive force against ‘their’. The first – and maybe the hardest – step to take against climate change seems to be that we have to see ‘our’ in a different way. We have to quell the basic human desire to improve our lot at the expense of others, where ‘expense of others’ might mean exploiting others, ignoring others or using up the resources of others. If lyrebirds can challenge their instincts in order to survive, why can’t we?
Posted in Tapitallee tales
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When I turn off the highway I notice handmade signs dotted along the road. ‘Thank you firies’ they say. These are heartfelt messages. There are patches of burnt out bush and the ground is covered in leaf-litter from trees shedding their leaves to survive. Everything looks exhausted, drooping. The bush is quiet: few birds, nothing bigger. This is the land that the fire approached, having jumped the Shoalhaven River after days of sitting at its edge, slavering. You can see that the land itself couldn’t have resisted. You can see how the fire would have gobbled up that leaf-litter and bounced into the trees themselves, crawling up the trunks. How it would have leapt through the canopy, looking for more to devour.
The stories I hear from my neighbours are of miracles and lucky breaks. We’re lucky the firies chose this spot to try to draw a line against the mighty Currowan fire, so it didn’t spread down to the more inhabited parts of north Nowra. We’re lucky they contained it where they did, that a neighbour was here to show the firies from Queensland where the overgrown fire trails were. That a firebreak got out of hand but they firebombed it back into control. We’re lucky our houses didn’t explode like one neighbour’s friend. We’re lucky another neighbour has a son who’s a firie, who came up here to check on how it was going, sending back messages of reassurance.
We shake ourselves and say it again. We’re lucky that we didn’t join the hundreds of thousands, millions, of Australians disastrously affected by the bushfires that have been burning across the country since September. That we didn’t, along with so many others, lose our much-loved house. We had some days of worry, one night of complete resignation facing the worst. It is a holiday home, not our only house. And it is a house, not our lives, or our livelihoods. But it is our house. The house we’ve built over the last two years, and only lived in for the past year. Planned and furnished and filled with love. It’s the house Martin was taken from to the Shoalhaven hospital. It’s the house I returned to the same night, after a day of hospital staff stabilising Martin’s breathing, to find the whole community gathered nearby around the pizza oven. They flocked to me, invited me in, loaded me up with food and warmth. It’s the house and community I have planned to live in in years to come.
But even though the house is still standing and even the plants in the planter box have survived, something has gone. Through the missing trees I can see houses I never knew were there. I stand on the ashy ground and see burnt leaves everywhere. No insects bang at the night-time windows. More than that, it’s a sense of trust that has gone. The trust that fires can be controlled. That this little house would be here for me, that I would add to the garden and learn all the plants, all the birds in the bush around me. Having imagined the destruction of such a raging fire, I can’t unimagine it. It’s a version of the world that stays with me. In one moment, it all could have been lost. The fact that it wasn’t means I’m sitting in a ghost house, where ruins might have been. I can’t look at the bush or be in the house without that knowledge. It all looks transient now, shaky, the lines blurring in and out of view, dream-like.
Posted in Climate change challenge, Tapitallee tales
A couple of weeks ago I decided to set myself a challenge: to do something personal about climate change each month. My challenge for September was to find out which was the least damaging petrol for the environment. Spending time in the bush at Tapitallee is a wonderful antidote to the pressures of city living, but driving down here is an environmental burden.
It turned out there was no simple answer to my question. And the answers I found were dispiriting – more evidence of woeful environmental leadership in Australia. The articles on the subject were unanimous – ‘compared with most of the rest of the world, our fuel is filthy’[1] and ‘… this country still uses much dirtier fuel than most of the rest of the world. Indeed, Australia is ranked 70th in terms of fuel quality because of the relatively high percentage of sulphur permitted.’[2] and ‘Australia’s 91-octane standard fuel is allowed to have sulphur levels as high as 150 parts per million. The world standard in markets such as China, Europe, India and Japan is 10 ppm.’[3]
The levels of sulphur in our petrol are a problem because our petrol is ‘pumping significantly more sulphur dioxide – a common cause of breathing problems and generator of acid rain – into the atmosphere than other OECD members, creating excessive engine wear for consumers and even costing us more at the pump, because the dirty fuel doesn’t burn as efficiently as if it had less sulphur.’[4] Moreover, because our petrol has these high levels of sulphur, ‘the latest-technology, low-emission engines cannot be supported in the domestic market. “If you go to a higher quality fuel, the vast majority of vehicles on our roads automatically (become) more fuel efficient,” said Mr Weber [chief executive of the Federal Chamber of Automotive Industries (FCAI)]. “There would be an improvement in the fuel economy of vehicles across the fleet of 17 million vehicles in Australia, not just the new ones”.’[5] The FCAI has said that ‘improving Australia’s fuel quality would offer a “3% to 5%” improvement on CO2 performance “overnight”.’[6]
We have four types of petrol available: 91RON, 95RON, 98RON and E10. (RON means Research Octane Number – ‘Octane is the measure of a fuel’s ability to resist the phenomenon known as ‘knocking’ … [which] is the uncontrolled combustion of fuel that can destroy engine internals.’[7]) 91RON petrol has a 150 ppm sulphur content, while 95RON and 98RON have a 50 ppm sulphur content. So even our best petrol has five times more sulphur than the world standard.
E10 is not the obvious choice either. ‘E10 is a blend of regular unleaded (RON 91) petrol and between 9% and 10% ethanol. Blending the ethanol at this ratio increases the RON to 94.’[8] So E10 has 90% of the sulphur of 91RON petrol (so, 135 ppm). The manufacture of the ethanol is probably less environmentally detrimental than the production of petrol, and ethanol ‘is a clean burning fuel that produces less greenhouse gases than unleaded petrol’[9]. However, ‘the sustainability certification of Australian produced ethanol is not transparent. We know from studies conducted by organisations including the European Commission that when coal is used to produce ethanol, it can result in “little or no greenhouse gas emissions saving for ethanol compared to gasoline” on a well-to-wheel basis. This is a significant consideration for Australia, given our current reliance on fossil fuels.’[10] Also, ‘E10 has around 3% less energy than the equivalent amount of RON 91 petrol. On average, this can translate to an increase in fuel consumption of around 3%, which has about the same effect on fuel consumption as driving on tyres with inadequate air pressure.’[11]
So what, I hear you clamour, is our government doing about this? High levels of sulphur polluting our air and choking our people; dirty fuel leaving us unable to use the latest technology of low-emissions vehicles; unclear certification on ethanol – surely they’re keen to listen to the Federal Chamber of Automotive Industries and improve our CO2 performance ‘overnight’?
Well, in December 2016 the Department of the Environment and Energy released a discussion paper called ‘Better fuel for cleaner air’ which set out the problem succinctly:
It also states that ‘Catalytic converters in vehicles are designed to filter emissions and reduce noxious substances emitted from vehicles. Sulfur clogs the catalytic converters making them less effective.’ It then outlines five alternative approaches, ranging from ‘no change’ through to the staged introduction of world standards from 2020. Sadly, the decision that was reached was closer to the ‘no change’ than introducing the world standards[12]. The sulphur in petrol will be reduced to 10 ppm – from July 1 2027. The aromatic content in petrol will be reduced from 42 per cent to 35 per cent, effective 1 January 2022, to be reviewed and reduced by 2027. [‘Aromatic content’ refers to chemicals like benzene, toluene and xylene used to increase the petrol’s octane rating since lead was banned. The effect of these chemicals is being increasingly questioned. ‘The chemicals get released into the air as nano-sized particles – ultrafine particulate matter, or UFPs – that can be absorbed through the lungs or skin. Studies in peer-reviewed journals like the Journal of Environmental Science and Health, Environmental Health Perspectives and Particle and Environmental Toxicology, have linked these particles from aromatics to diseases ranging from ADHD to asthma.’[13]]
So where does that leave us? I’m thinking that E10 is only 10% ethanol, has 135 ppm sulphur, is less efficient, and even the production of the ethanol is not necessarily clean. So for now I’m opting for the petrols with less sulfur (RON95 and RON98). But I’m also looking into carbon offsets, and electric cars. My October challenge.
[1] https://www.whichcar.com.au/features/australias-petrol-is-one-of-the-dirtiest-in-the-world
[2] https://www.afr.com/opinion/cleaner-petrol-a-bigger-help-than-electric-cars-20180124-h0nnfg
[3] https://www.canberratimes.com.au/story/6079636/our-poor-quality-petrol-slows-the-drive-to-improved-emissions/
[4] https://www.whichcar.com.au/features/australias-petrol-is-one-of-the-dirtiest-in-the-world
[5] https://www.caradvice.com.au/714921/why-australia-needs-better-quality-fuel/
[6] https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2019/sep/02/eu-to-push-australia-to-clean-up-petrol-standards-as-part-of-free-trade-deal
[7] https://www.mynrma.com.au/membership/my-nrma-app/fuel-resources/can-premium-fuels-clean-your-engine
[8] https://www.e10fuelforthought.nsw.gov.au/facts
[9] https://www.racq.com.au/cars-and-driving/cars/owning-and-maintaining-a-car/facts-about-fuels/ethanol
[10] https://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-07-04/e10-cheapest-petrol-fuel-emissions-biofuels-ethanol-australia/9922938
[11] https://www.e10fuelforthought.nsw.gov.au/facts
[12] https://www.environment.gov.au/protection/fuel-quality/standards
[13] https://morningconsult.com/2015/04/22/growing-chorus-of-complaints-on-chemicals-in-gasoline/
19 Monday Aug 2019
Posted in Tapitallee tales
At dusk – that soft time of day when the fading light brings out the fantastical – a wombat wandered into the yard. I saw it under the wattle tree – yellow flowers reduced to grey, billowing scent and heady hum of bees vanished with the setting sun – tugging at a tuft of grass, scratching the hard earth with its no-nonsense paws. I crept off the balcony and slowly made my way across the yard. The wombat gave no sign of seeing me, yet somehow the distance between us never varied. I would creep, it would waddle nonchalantly, even stopping to attack another clump of grass, but I didn’t seem to get any closer. It went around the end of the shed, past the chairs that it had clearly knocked over on a previous expedition. I thought to cut it off at the pass, but it veered off, again turning its large square rump to me.
It made me realise I know very little about wombats. Could it hear me, or see me, or detect me in some other way? Or was it simply unafraid? All I knew of wombats I had learnt in Tasmania, at the Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary (‘Here, knock on that’, the assistant invited us, and we each took a turn of knocking on the thick square bony bum of the obliging wombat, each of us astounded in turn by its solidity. ‘If it’s in danger it ducks into its burrow head first and blocks the entrance with this rump’, she explained. ‘It can crush a dog’s head against the side of burrow,’ she added cheerfully.)
So I turn to the Australian Museum and NSW Department of Planning, Industry and Environment websites for information on wombats. Ok, so I can’t go further without mentioning that I was intrigued to read the museum’s section on Conversation status – unfortunately not a section on how to converse with wombats, but nevertheless pleasing as it reveals that the Common Wombat (our wombat) is not listed as being under threat, even though its distribution has been greatly diminished in the past 200 years.
From the websites: The wombat is a marsupial with an average length of a metre and an average weight of 26 kg. They are very strong and can run at up to 40km/hr over short distances. Females tend to be slightly larger than males. They are usually seen after sunset, when they leave their burrows to graze. (Yes!) Their main food is fibrous native grasses. They are generally solitary animals, although they can share their burrows. They are very territorial about their feeding grounds, and will defend them aggressively. I like this bit about communication from the Australian Museum:
A warning call is usually a low guttural growl, but when a wombat is alarmed or angered, rasping hiss can also be heard. The animal repeats this high, loud call as it expels air. Sometimes the call can be a more aggressive ‘chikker chikker’ sound and/or a more guttural sound similar to that of an angry brushtail possum. Communication is also apparent between younger animals and their mothers. Young make repeated, softer ‘huh huh’ calls when they lose sight of their mother, and she usually responds in the same manner.
Wombats usually have one joey at a time. It gestates for about 30 days then makes its way to the mother’s pouch, where it grows for up to 10 months. It leaves the pouch after that but remains with its mother for a further 8–10 months before becoming independent. The pouch faces backwards so the joey is protected when the mother is digging (or diving down her burrow). Mating takes place after an exhausting series of chases over a wide area and includes much rump biting.
It’s neither of those websites, but the Wildlife Rescue South Coast website that answers my questions about the wombat’s perception of my stalking presence:
While their eyesight is poor, wombats have a keen sense of smell, excellent hearing and very large brains.
So yes, it knew I was there, it maintained the distance between us, and it was in no danger of me taking a better photograph.
02 Friday Aug 2019
Posted in Tapitallee tales
Blooms are appearing on the wattles by the side of the road and on the tree in the middle of the yard. The activity of the birds increases, week by week, as they intuit the coming of spring. Birds that I don’t know in this dry sandstone country, so different to the rolling hills and green valleys, rainforest, rivers and creeks of Gloucester. I have to start again with our massive, cumbersome Cayley’s What bird is that? ($20 at a second-hand shop many years ago – a purchase that seemed Quixotic at the time – pointless folly – but which has given us hours of entertainment and illumination, even when it has to be cross-checked with the two volumes of A field guide to Australian birds by Peter Slater).
A black and grey flycatcher in the wattle darts out and then, as if it realises it has forgotten something, darts back to the tree. There’s a black and white treecreeper on the gums behind the house, then on the poles near the pizza oven, making its hopping way up and around. When I went down to the chook house I walked past the canopy of a eucalypt full of silent silvereyes, giving themselves away only through the sudden flutter of their wings as they flew from branch to branch. From another tree nearby came a deep and melodious ‘whoo’, rising from ‘wh’ to ‘oo’: a white-headed pigeon, its large white belly puffed out. Closer to the house a different ‘whoo’ – a repetitive, shortened ‘whup whup’, very low, very rhythmic – a bird I’ve heard before and searched for in vain. It’s not the loud and proud wonga pigeon that we used to hear at Gloucester, its unstoppable call filling the valley, but almost the antithesis with its sombre, nearly sub-hearing vibratory noise.
Next to the house there is a little cloud of tiny birds in the eucalypt making their weightless way from leaf to leaf, searching, needle sharp and fast, for insects. Looking up towards the sun it’s hard to make them out, but maybe there are dots, and golden yellow bellies. Maybe they are weebills, or spotted or striated pardalotes. When I consult Cayley I think I can rule out the spotted pardalote, which is described as having ‘a monotonous call-note, like “slee-p ba-bee”’, as they cheeped constantly and vivaciously, but my imprecise ear hasn’t retained the difference between a ‘wit-e-chu’ (striated pardalote) or ‘weebill’ (weebill). Striated pardalotes would be so exotic! Even though they occur all over Australia, I’m yet to see one. I remember my upswelling of jealousy when a visitor to the farm told us of the pardalotes who return every year to his property in Victoria, to nest in a tiny gap in the wall of his house.
I haven’t had one full year here at Tapitallee yet, so I have no way of knowing how the bush has changed over the past 10, 20, 50 years. I can only observe the now. Yet, I’m sure it is changing.
Today’s news story from the Copernicus Climate Change Service says that it looks like July was the warmest July on record, following on from June having being the warmest June on record. Average temperatures in Europe were more than 2 degrees C above ‘normal’ (whatever that is now) and the global-average temperature was about 0.1 degrees C higher than the previous warmest in 2016. A graph on their website showing the daily average temperature for Europe in June has a dark line of dashes snaking above a tangle of other lines – the dark dashes represent 2019, the others represent every fifth year since 1979. The previous warmest year was 1999, but that never reaches the consistent heights of 2019. I can’t help but see the heavy black lines of the warmer years dominating the gentler pink and blue lines of other years, leading them to rise ever higher, a horrible metaphor for our world.
We can see now that climate change isn’t just affecting us this year, or last year, but for many years past. After many years denying the warnings of scientists, and more years believing it was way in the future, we are feeling, not the first faint stirrings, but the full and mature effects of a radical change to the climate.
